


For an answer

by Eonneo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 05:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonneo/pseuds/Eonneo
Summary: Where the Hell are you, and why does this scarred man think you know what he wants to know?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have read it, my 'Interrogation Tactics' abuse fic with Arthur Morgan was well received. I decided to give some for John Marston, too, because why not? I'm sure someone out there wants to read it. And here it is. If you're into this kind of thing but want something softer, then here it is. If you want something a bit more aggressive, then please, check out 'Interrogation Tactics' in my gallery.  
> I in no way condone abuse. But I know some people may enjoy it, and use fiction as a safe, good way to explore those enjoyments.  
> I hope YOU enjoy this.  
> Thank you.

“What the fuck is going on?” you demanded, but the sentence came out choppy with each trot of the horse underneath you. All you knew is someone was riding the horse while you were draped over the back, hogtied and blindfolded. Before that, you had been asleep in your camp, minding your own business very well.  
No reply.   
The movements of the horse against your gut were beginning to make you feel sick. Not to mention the awful feeling that you were not in for a peaceful night to yourself. This was a kidnapping, and a good one at that.   
A while longer and the horse stopped. Whoever was riding it slid off the saddle and picked you up off the back. Quiet footsteps filled the air until you heard a door creak open, then shut. With a painful thud, you were dropped to the floor, the feeling of a wall behind you. You managed to sit yourself up.  
“What the fuck? Really?”   
“Be quiet.” It was said so casually, so relaxed, that it almost made you shiver. The voice you heard was definitely male, and perhaps one of the most unique voices you had ever heard.   
It was a while longer after some shuffling and fire starting that the blindfold was removed. Your first sight was the man who had brought you in, squatting down to meet you face to face. He was built well, but not too large. Long hair that went to his chin, and a hint of shadow on his face. Most notable were scars across his right cheek. He was weathered, but not too old looking.  
“Now, we can do this one of two ways. You have some information I need. And I have ways of getting that information. Easy ways. Hard ways. Which is gonna' be?”  
You could only stare at him with a blank expression. Who the Hell was he? What could he possibly want from you? Why was he threatening you?  
“I'm sorry, what?”   
“You heard me.”  
“What do you want to know?”   
“Where your friend Dutch is.”  
“Dutch Van Der Linde?”   
“So you do know him,” the man said.   
“Knew, actually.”  
“I don't believe that for a second.”  
The man held out a hand, taking hold of your chin, moving it by the fire's light.  
“This is the last time I'll ask. Where is he?”  
“I haven't talked to Dutch in a long time.”  
A sudden slap to your face shocked you, knocking you over to the ground. It took you a moment to gather yourself, the man never moving.  
“Jesus fucking Christ. What is your problem?”   
“Right now, you,” he said, pulling you back to sitting by the ropes behind your back. He let a hand fall to your neck.  
“Where is Dutch Van Der Linde?” This time, he asked with a harsher tone, his voice deeper. His faced seemed even angrier under his scars.  
“I don't fucking know.” You hadn't even finished the sentence when he hit you again. You gave a quick gasp, head on fire from the force.   
The man stood up, towering over you.   
“Lying doesn't work with me.”  
“And it seems neither does the truth. Are you that blind?”  
He pulled a gun out of his holster and aimed it at your head. You went still, quiet, even with your cheek throbbing. This man was serious, and the fear of your situation began to fill your chest.  
“You're gonna' talk.”  
“I-I don't know. I really don't.”   
The man grit his teeth, sneered, and let the butt of his gun make contact with your face. You slumped forward slightly, ears ringing. The man didn't give you a chance to recover, lifting you to stand by your shirt collar. He was bigger than you, for sure, and obviously stronger.   
He held you to the wall with his arm across your neck, barrel of his gun touching your temple.  
“Speak. Or I'll end you.”  
“Dutch left my presence a long time ago, okay? He kind of went crazy. Nothing I could do about it.”   
Just by the look of his face, inches from yours, you knew he still didn't believe you. Whatever quarrel this man had with Dutch was damning, and he was making sure he handled it.  
His arm pressed harder against your neck, to the point you struggled to breath. Your vision began to darken, but the man let up just enough to bring you back, gasping desperately.   
“Aren't you a tough one?” he half compliment, half insulted.  
“And aren't you a stupid one?” Why did you say that? You didn't know. It was instinct. Defensive instinct. But he didn't like it, balling his hand into a fist and hitting your other cheek with its side. You fell to the ground like dead weight. You weren't in any place to take much more.   
He followed your body, dropping a knee into your back, shoving your face further into the ground.  
“Really? Says the person who called their captor – the one with a gun to their head, I might add – stupid.”   
“Fuck,” was all you managed.  
He kneed himself further into your spine, leaning down to be near your head.  
“You need to watch your goddamn mouth.”   
“Go fuck yourself,” you hissed, fed up with his ignorance to you.  
The man stood up, boot onto your upper back.  
“Since you want to act like you're invincible, I'll treat you like you are.”  
He lifted his boot, and then stomped down. You tensed under it, clenching your teeth. He did it again, harder. The man then stepped back, swinging at your ribs. He did this two more times before rolling you to your back with his foot, straddling your torso, with one hand on your jaw and the other with his gun to your head.  
“If I ever see you again, I will make you beg me to kill you.” He twitched the side of his face with the scars, rolling you back to your stomach and cutting your ropes. You just lay there, immobile from pain as the man walked out the cabin without further word. You drug yourself to a makeshift bedroll and let yourself sink away into rest, unsure how to process what had just happened.


	2. Remember It Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That scarred man is back, and he wants more than information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commission! Woah! Someone really wanted a non-con added to my John Marston abuse fic, so here it is! They wanted to remain anonymous, which is fine by me! I hope you enjoy it - I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Disclaimer - I am in no way condoning abuse, but instead use writing fictional characters to help express it for those who may enjoy it. I wrote it so the reader is ambiguous and can be whatever gender you prefer! 
> 
> Commissions are $5 a page if you like.

The night was cold, a blistering wind howling outside of your small home. Snow, powdery and white, dusted the ground and surrounding area, chilling the air. It was perfect weather to stay in, eat a nice meal, read a book and relax. There really was nothing more you'd rather do. Fire lit, basking the small wooden abode with a warm glow, you took seat on your bed.  
You hadn't made it far into your plan when a loud gunshot from nearby outside surprised you. Quietly and discretely, you walked to the window, peeking around the curtain to see if anyone were there. When you saw nothing, you stepped back, confused and concerned.   
Two more gunshots.   
Something wasn't right. Were your two horses in danger? Was it a nearby neighbor? More importantly, what if it were someone who was lost? It could have been a lot of things, good and bad. You battled with yourself internally to consider what you should do, and maybe with a lack of better judgment, you decided to step outside of the cabin.   
You took it slow, opening the door with a gun in hand and lamp in the other. The metal stung against your skin in the cold, but you ignored it, stepping out into the snow with large boots. It crunched underneath, the only sound to fill the air.. The sky was too dark to see properly through the thick pine trees. Your small stable in the distance seemed undisturbed, the horses making no sounds of distress.   
Something began to feel wrong in your gut. It was nighttime. Snowing. Going out into the woods would be a death wish. Whoever had shot the gun was going to have to fend for themselves.  
Pleased with that decision, you turned to enter your home, but never made the next step, something hard hitting your temple. The last memory you had was your body falling softly into the snow, coldness surrounding you  
You had no concept of how long it had been until you woke up, but when you did wake up, the first thing you notice was your restrained hands behind your back, your body slumped over the floor. Your winter clothes were gone. By instinct, you began to thrash to free yourself, unsure of what had happened.  
“Quiet down.”   
You recognized the voice, and it stopped you. There was no way you could have forgotten such a sound. It was _him_ , the scarred man who had interrogated you before.  
“You? What do you want?!”   
He was sitting by the fire, smoking a cigarette, a bottle of beer in one hand. Under his scars was a curt smile, smoke blowing from his lips.  
“Now, the last time we met, you said you didn't know anything about Dutch. I didn't believe you then, and it seems it was good on me. Because rumor has it, you do know where he is now.”  
“That again?! Really?” You wriggled until you sat upright. “It ain't my fault you can't find the guy you lookin' for. It's been a month.”  
The man didn't say anything. He gave no clue on his face he cared about what you said. A final deep inhale of the cigarette, and he tossed the remains into the fire, following with a drink of beer. Once the glass was empty, he stood from the chair, taking slow steps over to where you kept your liquor.   
“I don't much like your manners.”  
“You came in to my house. I don't know what you were expecting.”   
“A good time,” he plainly replied.  
His hands fell over the few bottles you had until it stopped on a bottle of gin, already opened and half empty. Sliding it over the wooden counter, he picked it up, opening it to take a large drink of it.  
“What do you mean?” you asked in disbelief.   
The man only laughed.   
“Who the fuck are you?”  
“That doesn't matter.”  
He lazily paced over to you, eyes trained upon you as you sat on the ground. The two of you made eye contact.  
“Get a fuckin---” you had began, but were cut short when his boot made contact with your ribs. A solid groan came from you, the pain like a lightning bolt through your skin.  
“Fuck,” you groaned.  
He just laughed again, going to the other side and following with another kick, lower this time. You toppled over, feeling nauseous and unable to catch your breath.   
The man crouched in front of you, taking another sip of the gin. With his free hand, he lifted your chin up to look at him, following with a hard slap. You tensed, curling up, confused.   
“That's nice, isn't it?” His hand rested upon the cheek he had hit, almost caressing it softly. He felt you tense again under his touch, gave a quiet 'hm' and hit again. Your body fell over onto your side, the position awkward and painful. He took a handful of your hair and pulled you back up, a headache forming under the grip.  
He examined you, cheek turning red from his abuse.   
“That's a good one,” he complimented, turning your head to see the other cheek. Another sip of the liquor, and he put the bottle down, letting the now free hand hit the unmarked side of your face. He had forced you to brace for it with his fist in your hair, and at that one, you let out a yelp, the pain beginning to take its toll. With your sound of pain, he gave a confused 'hm' as if he were surprised by it.  
He shifted again, falling to one knee that he had placed between your legs, the other leg up by your side, one hand in your hair and the other by your face on the wall, the position pinning you further to the wall. Tilting your headback, he leaned over you, hair falling around his face in messy strands. A twisted grin was underneath his scars. Taken off guard, his lips met yours in a sudden kiss. You protested, trying to thrash and be free of his grip. His free hand teased your neck, fingers running across it in a move that made you shiver. Slowly, he began to squeeze, each moment your vision darkening.   
“Are you done fighting?” he questioned as he let go, bringing you back with a gasp. Looking into the fire brought you back quicker, its bright light a place to focus on.  
But he didn't give you much time for this, kissing you again, harder. His tongue parted your lips, filling your senses with the gin he had been drinking.   
Once finished, he let go of you and stepped back, breathing hard.   
“What – the fuck – is wrong with you?” you asked between breaths, sore, belittled and horrifically confused. He needed to leave. You needed to be free.  
He didn't answer, going over to you and picking you up by the ropes at your back. He did it with surprising ease, carrying you over to the bed and dropping you over the foot on your stomach. Quickly, he started by taking off your boots, tossing them to the floor.. Next, he tried for your pants, but you reared your leg back and kicked him in the gut. He grunted, and became irate, picking you up by your hair, leaning your body in to him. You nearly screamed from the shock.  
“Do that again, and you'll die here tonight.” His breath was hot on your neck, but he gave no time for reply, tossing you back on the bed, again working at your pants until your lower half was bare. There was a sound of his belt being unbuckled, and then he crawled over top of you.  
“Fuck,” was all he said as he position you better, one hand on your shoulder and the other entangled in your mess of hair.   
You knew what was happening, but you didn't know why. You didn't even know who this man was, but he was obviously unstable, strong and winning against you. It terrified you, but it was to the point of no return.  
Another shift of his hips and he was inside you. It was dry, hurting, and you inhaled sharply. His hips moved slowly at first, both hands he had on you balling tighter, his nails digging into your shoulder. He let out a moan, starting to move faster, the bed creaking underneath the weight.   
“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeated breathlessly,, the word hanging in the air. You were tense, body aching and each thrust of his hips making it worse. You were hoping he'd finish quickly, but he seemed to be taking his time, slowing down again. The hand on your shoulder moved down to your stomach, pulling you closer and bending you further over the bed. His other hand, the one that had been pulling your hair, fell by your head, sheet twisting into his fingers.   
Again, he sped up, breathing hard with every move he made. His free hand slid under your neck, draping over your shoulders, bracing you for each thrust. With a final gasping moan, his moves became sloppy, slowing down, the his grip on you easing up. Once done, he only lay there on top of you a moment, catching his breath. You could only feel disgusted with yourself and what had happened, eyes closed tightly while he rested.  
Finally, he pushed off of you, dressing himself quickly before he cut your ropes lose. You crawled into the bed and wrapped the unfurled sheet around you, beyond tired, sore and worthless. Something in you wanted to ask why, but another part of you knew that it would be pointless. You just wanted him to leave.  
“John Marston is my name. Remember it well,” was all he said, looking at you with a sneer of disgust. He went to the bottle of gin on the floor, picking it up in a swoop, and walking out the door. He shut it quietly, and you heard no further noise but the fire crackling in the corner. You had a thousand questions, but they were overpowered by your aching and throbbing body. Giving in to the screams of pain from your muscles, you curled up and tried to drift away from it all.


	3. Worthless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Marston is back, and he's here to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frick. So. This wasn't my most popular fic, but I felt it deserved a third chapter since Interrogation Tactics had 3. Not to mention, I have a particularly BAD FRIEND WHO KEEPS TELLING ME TO WRITE SMUT UNTIL MY HEART IS CONTENT. So I do. And write more then. And more. My life is filled with abuse smut. I am a kinky, kinky bitch.  
> I wanted more verbal abuse this round than sexual, so. You get sex too. Just more verbal. Hope you like it! 
> 
> I wrote half of this FIVE months ago and just finished it today so, sorry if it's a bit uneven. I re-read it and like it though. John Marston is a mean fuckin' man.

John Marston. He had been in town around Rhodes, where you were staying. You had heard the name through the vines of the town's speak. He was on a mission to find members of the gang he used to ride with, for some unknown reason. The talk was that he was determined, ready to kill who he needed to kill to get what he wanted. You had experienced that first hand.   
Through the month since your last interaction, you had upped your security. The windows had boards over them, and the door had a board to block it off when needed, alongside two separate locks. You had bought another gun and stockpiled ammo. He would not be a problem, a fear, for you again. With him poking around the town, you did your best to avoid it, thriving on what supplies you had already.  
The evening had set over the woods, the sky a blood red, clouds lazily wafting overhead. It had snowed a good amount, and the horses needed fed. Dressed warmly, a gun at your hip and another at the other, you stepped outside, wading through the snow with large, uneven steps. A stillness existed in the air as snow fell, the trees leafless and looming over with their grey, gnarled trunks. Anything that was in the woods wouldn't be able to hide well, and you felt confident in your abilities.   
At the barn, you began heaving food to your two horses, spending time patting them and giving them a quick brushing. They seemed content with this, and so did you. When you were satisfied with the work, you stepped outside from the barn to a near blizzard. Thick snow dropped to the ground, and it was near impossible to see more than a foot in front of you. The path to your house was in your mind, though, and you heaved yourself through it, slowly but surely. Being unable to see made you nervous, but you kept a hand on your knife that rested near your guns, the wooden handle sure under your gloves.   
Your cabin appeared quickly, and without haste you opened the door, slamming it as the cold winds chilled in. While you were busy, the fire had gone out, a trail of smoke leading through the house. With a heavy shrug, your coat fell from your shoulders to the dining table. You felt lighter now, more agile and comfortable.   
It was hard to see through your cabin, the sun nearly set. Blindly, you paced around for your oil lamp, and found it on a desk near your spare room. You lit it, and the soft, small flame lit the room enough for you to move.   
But you didn't. Just feet away from you stood a figure. A male figure. You lifted the lamp. Him.  
“John Marston.”   
“I told you that you'd remember my name.”   
Tension took hold of your muscles. You shivered.   
“What do you want?”   
He sighed, but showed no expression.   
“You can make this easy, or you can make it hard.”  
“Get out of my house.” Your tone was deep. Serious. Hand ready on your knife.  
“The hard way it is.”  
Whatever he had planned, you stopped it, dropping the lantern and tackling him. The two of you hit the ground, John taking most of the force. The knife left its place on your thigh, aiming right for his neck. Before it made contact, darkness filled the room, the lamp fizzling out. You heard the knife make contact, but with the floor, not him, sticking deep into the wood.  
A fist into your cheek. You reared up, grabbing for where you thought his face was. Skin under your fingertips, and you clawed. Another hit to your face, knocking you back. John lifted up, pushing you to your back. A third hit. Your head swam. Choking you, trying to gasp for air but nothing came of it. He was heavy on top of you. A loose fist made contact with his face. He grunted. A shove, and he was rolled off of you.   
The door. You crawled, trying to stand upright, but he grasped your ankle, and you tripped, face hitting the floor. The taste of copper filled your mouth, and your tongue swirled over a busted lip.   
John fell onto your back, pinning you. It was a struggle against him, but he didn't fight, simply held you down until you had tired yourself.   
“Done?” he asked in a huff.  
You jolted, trying to buck him off of you. It threw him off balance, but he pinned you back down, wrapping an arm around your biceps and torso. After a few more moments of your muscles tensing under his, you caved, letting yourself rest on the floor, catching your breath.   
“What – do you want?” The words came between pants.  
He gave no reply, but in between his breaths he clutched your wrists, bringing them to your back. A small burst of energy hit you, your hips and knees bucking again. John didn't expect it, falling backwards off of you. Heaving yourself up, you tripped over your feet, falling beside him instead of on him.  
There was a shuffling sound, and a boot made contact with your ribs. Rolling over onto your back, John toppled on to you, fist jabbing into your cheek. You were unprepared for it, and went limp. Your stamina was draining, the pain strong.   
Movement stopped. Right to your temple was the barrel of a gun, Marston still over top of you. The only sound left was a mixture of you two breathing in gasps.  
“Fight some more. Go ahead.”   
You didn't move, the darkness finally setting in. A fair fight, and you had lost. It was quite a pathetic feeling.   
“Stand up.”  
“No.” What was the point of _obeying_ if he were just going to kill you?  
The gun's butt hit your cheek, and in your stupor he picked you up by your shirt collar. His hands carried you for a moment, your feet sliding before he found something to brace you on. It felt like your kitchen's counter.  
“I heard all about you.”   
The hammer clicked as he cocked it with his thumb, pressing the gun's barrel further into your temple. The metal was cold, heavy against the flesh, already bruised from the previous fight.   
“Worthless. The most useless member of the gang you ran with.”   
He let out a heavy sigh between the two of you,. You could not see his face, but imagined it was full of judgment and disgust with you. John Marston didn't even really know you, did he? Was that worth challenging?   
“You don't know who I am.”  
“That's not true. I just don't care who you are. What I do know is enough.”  
The gun's butt hit your cheek, but there was hardly anything behind it. It was a tease. He had proven himself. You stumbled back a bit, hand on the sore spot, trying to keep yourself steady.   
“Letting members get killed. Go hungry. A crack shot. You was worthless then and you're worthless now. Look at yourself. All holed up out here in the woods. Why is that? Maybe because you're too dumb to fit in with the regular folk?”  
Wall to your back now, you stood still, hand still resting over your cheek. Your silence must have shown some form of weakness, because John snickered, the sound of him holstering his gun loud.  
“I'm right, ain't I? Go ahead, then, if I ain't. Who are you really? What kind of skills do you really offer?”   
“I, uh,” you stuttered, trying to look around the measly cabin for some defense, but your eyes hadn't truly adjusted to the dark.  
“There ain't no answer. You and I both know that.”   
He took a step towards you, boots a thud against the floor.   
“You ain't worth a scrap. Can't fight me. Can't defend yourself. It's all so, hm, pathetic.”  
“That...ain't true...” you muttered, the words hanging in the air.  
“Prove me wrong.”   
Another step. He was testing you, now, seeing if you were going to buck against him. But there was no energy left in you for such a thing. Drained both emotionally and physically, feeling weak, what was there left to do?  
Another quiet, quick chuckle.   
“You seem to be startin' to see it.”   
“I ain't seein' anything.” That was a lie.   
“Then I'll make you see it,” Movement. You were tensing, anxious, unable to see him. In some unknown way he found another lamp you had resting about and lit it. When he did, the fire illuminated him in a terrifying way, his eyes upon you with hunger..   
He came at you, quickly, pinning you to the wall, lips clashing with yours. He groped you, hard, pressing you to the wall. You pushed away, but were sore. His hand gripped your neck, and he practically threw you over the table. You grunted, held down by his arms, struggling to breathe between his weight and wood.   
“Get off of me!” you harshly demanded, trying to force upwards and toss him up. He didn't budge, and you had little fight in you. Once done thrashing, he lifted you by your hair, shoving you against the wall with an elbow, lips back to yours. He felt you, hastily, trying to tug your clothes off. Your body was so tired that you began to just let it happen. To get the nightmare over with.  
Back to the table, bent over it. He brought out a knife, slicing your pants away in threads, exposing you, hand grabbing hand fulls of your thighs and ass. He seemed desperate, aligning his hips with yours and shoving himself into you with a burning feeling. His hands braced at your shoulders, table creaking. He thrusted hard, your nail scraping at the wood, uncomfortable with pain. At points, he'd take his time, then speed up, edging himself. It had hut enough, and your hand reached up to hit him. He stopped moving, just momentarily, and gripped your wrists, slamming them in front of you. Back to thrusting, grunting, breathing heavily, heat growing between the two of you.  
After what felt like an eternity, he finally began to speed up. It burned, your thighs and wrist hurt, and you felt humiliated. He let out a stifled groan and his moves became sloppy, releasing himself, the sticky feeling making you cringe. He didn't move, still holding you down, catching his breath.  
He stepped back, but you didn't move, your body trying to catch up. This wasn't acceptable to him, his hand tangling your hair and sliding you to your knees in front of him. He held his gun to your head, smiling, wicked.  
“You're worthless. A failure. Admit it.”  
But you said nothing, too tired.  
He cocked the hammer.  
“Say it.”  
“I'm fucking worthless. I know.”  
He let go at this, stepping over you to the door.. There was nothing else said, the door slamming, you rolling onto your back and letting the pain finally wash over you. It wasn't long until you began to sleep, hoping the nightmare in your skull disappeared.


End file.
